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Updated: May 20, 2025
So it went on for a year or two, till, one fall, I was stayin' here to your ma's, Cornele, I guess you remember the time, helpin' of her make up her quinces and apples. We was jest in the midst of bilin' cider, with one biler on the stove and the biggest brass kittle full in the fireplace, when in comes boltin' Miss Jaynes, dressed up as fine as a fiddle.
"If it wa'n't for her bein' Miss Jaynes's sister," said she, one day, to Cornelia, who had been praising her friend, "if it wa'n't for that one thing, I should like her remarkable well, a good deal more'n common." "Pray, what have you got such a spite against the Jayneses for?" asked Cornelia. "What do you mean by askin' such a question as that, Cornele?" said Tira, in a tone of stern reproof.
"I ha'n't got a spite against her, Cornele, though, I confess, I don't love the woman," replied Statira. "But I always treat her well; though, to be sure, I don't curchy so low and keep smilin' so much as most folks do, when they meet a minister's wife and have talk with her.
Even when she comes here a-borrowin' things she knows will be giv' to her when she asks for 'em, which makes it so near to beggin' that she ought to be ashamed on't, which I only give to her because it's your father's wish for me to do so, and the things are his'n; but I always treat her well, Cornele." "But why don't you like her, Tira?" asked Helen.
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